


Debris

by GinnyBadWolf



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Based on a scene in the TFP trailer and not from the actual episode because it hasn't come out yet, Explosions, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, It's hella gay my dudes, M/M, The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-16 23:22:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9294227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GinnyBadWolf/pseuds/GinnyBadWolf
Summary: Based on the TFP trailer where we see John and Sherlock flying out of an explosion. Just before, during, and just after such an event, and some of the things that it brings.





	

A moment passes that can only be described with the word  _ dread _ :  _ anticipate with great apprehension or fear.  _ It is the silent beat before destruction is wrought, the small frame of time where the only thing one can think is ‘No-’ before it is somehow over, in whatever fashion the form of destruction chooses to end things; by death or not so. 

 

This small window of time Sherlock spends gazing at John, heart threatening to beat so fast it may just pump out of his chest. He recognizes something there in John’s eyes (and how wondrous those eyes are), something he’s seen before in a situation all too similar to this one. 

 

He recalls a pool, a gun, a coat, a bomb, a Westwood suit and dead eyes to match. John had met Sherlock’s eyes and nodded, ready to meet their end together. Unquestionably so the two had understood that they would die then and there together, without objection any longer. Luckily it did not turn out that way. 

 

Neither did it turn out that way in the train car after they had just reunited after all those years away - once more, John agreed to die with Sherlock. Even when he had someone to go back to who was waiting for him, they had decided to die together. Once more they were lucky. 

 

However, perhaps their end had been coming for them after all, because here they are. 

 

Sherlock discovered far too late the bomb hidden in their flat, and this time there is no luck. The timer is in the single digits when Sherlock finally discovers where it had been hidden, and time seems to slow down as he and John glance at each other and both head for the windows, both knowing that it would be better to fly out onto the street rather than be blown to pieces. 

 

Then they hear the beeping stop and the moment of silence arrives, when all is still and quiet. Sherlock stares at John and sees the look in his eyes, and for the third time they agree to die together. He hopes John understands what else is concealed inside of his eyes, because it is imperative that John know - if the two of them are to die.

 

Time stops standing still as it did and the force of the explosion propels the cheap windows out of their frames and shooting out in the street as they shatter. Sherlock is already trying to get out of the window, and he is shot forward and through the air, flailing. Everything is fire and movement and BOOM and explosion and falling, falling, waiting for the landing because it’s not the fall that kills you Sherlock, it’s never the fall, it’s the LANDING, the LANDING!

 

He collides with the street with great force and his head does not feel Right. He skids along his chest for a solid metre and feels his shirt tear and skin being scraped off his palms and knees and face, and everything  _ hurts  _ and it’s all hot and stinging like mad and debris falls all around him, coating him in dust and pain.

 

Bits of his things as well as John’s fall all around, obliterated. He makes out the very top of a broken violin in the distance. He finds a semblance of focus left in his mind and devotes it to worrying about John and John alone before things all go very dark. 

 

John had landed on the pavement hard, his legs taking the brunt of the damage but feeling otherwise unharmed except for various scratches. He waits a while to get up to avoid being pummeled in debris and also he isn’t quite sure if his legs can take it quite yet. 

 

When the dust begins to settle he gets to his feet cautiously, leaning upon a nearby car to support the brunt of his weight. He hears sirens in the background of his ringing ears and sighs with relief, then moves to stumble to his left. “Sherlock?” He yells, searching for the man and waiting for him to appear out of the rubble and dust. 

 

There is no reply nor is there an apparent consulting detective rising out of the destruction, and his already paramount concern grows. ‘Do not lose him again’, he tells himself, and continues to hobble around. 

 

“Sherlock?” He shouts once more, and then his eyes land upon a still dark figure laid out upon the ground. He recognizes Sherlock’s dark curls and rushes as fast as his throbbing legs may take him, then collapsing to his knees at Sherlock’s side when he sees the blood matting those curls. “Sherlock!” He yells again, but the man does not stir. 

 

He flips Sherlock over in his lap, but shuts his eyes before he can see Sherlock’s face. This is the stuff of nightmares, truly - when he does not sleep peacefully the things he sees are a limp, dead-eyed Sherlock laid out on the pavement with blood coating his forehead. John fights back tears and chokes back a sob, choosing instead to grit his teeth and screw his eyes shut before opening them again, dreading the open yet empty eyes that will stare back at him.  _ Do not lose him. Do not lose Sherlock Holmes.  _   
  


Sherlock’s eyes are shut instead of open, and though he is limp, he is not cold. John presses two fingers to Sherlock’s neck, breathing a sigh of relief when he detects a pulse - not strong, but not weak either. 

 

He then shakes the man laying across his lap and yells his name once more. When this does not work he slaps Sherlock, immediately feels bad for doing so, and apologizes. There are little things he can do now without medical equipment or the strength to carry Sherlock to a safer area, but he has confidence that Sherlock will awaken. He knows Sherlock must. 

 

He shirks off his jacket and holds it over Sherlock’s head, hoping to protect him from the settling dust in the air. He waits like this for a few minutes, praying for Sherlock’s consciousness to be regained quickly. 

 

His prayers are answered no more than five minutes later when he hears a weak cough, and John shoves away the coat in order to cradle Sherlock’s head delicately. “Sherlock? Can you hear me?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes are unfocused, and he searches around for a moment before he seems to decide where John’s face is, and then a sense of clarity returns to the man. “John? Are you alright?!” Sherlock all but shouts, panic evident in his facial features like they almost never had been before.

 

“Me? Alright? Look at you! You’ve got a bloody head wound, for God’s sake!” 

 

Sherlock sits up, eyes and voice intense. “ _ Are you alright, John? _ ”

 

John stares at him, disbelieving. “Yes, I’m fine, my legs are hurting but I’m sure it’s nothing permanent. Sherlock, you are the one who needs medical attention.” 

 

Sherlock breathes out a sigh of relief. “I was worried you were going to die.” 

 

John feels a jolt in his chest. “You were worried about me?”

 

Sherlock frowns, surprised. “Of course I was. A bomb just went off, you think I wouldn’t care what happens to you?”

 

John blinks. “I - I didn’t think it occurred to you.” 

 

Sherlock frowns more deeply. “It may trouble you to consider this, but you do matter to me, John. Very, very much.” It is hard to see with all the dust and debris still floating through the air, but Sherlock seems to be tearing up. John lays blame to the head wound and convinces himself that the thickness in Sherlock’s voice is because of pain. 

 

But when Sherlock suddenly wraps his arms around John, he cannot deny that perhaps Sherlock is not crying because he is in pain. Tears soak into John’s shirt and his arms find Sherlock’s waist without a thought, and he presses Sherlock closer to him. 

 

“I thought you were going to die as well. When you were on the ground - the only thing I could think was - was -” John chokes back another sob unsuccessfully - “the fall.” A fat tear rolls down John’s face, and it falls onto Sherlock’s shoulder. They both fail at not sobbing into each other’s shoulders, and John finds that it is not merely for the explosion that they cry. 

 

For shooting Magnussen, for being sent away, for Sherlock is a girl’s name, for overdosing, for cheating, for Mary, for Rosie, for blame, for hatred, for too many drugs, for Culverton, for scalpels, for punches, for murder attempts, for saving John and saving Sherlock too. They cry for all of it, sagging against each other helplessly and clinging together like they are each other’s anchor. 

 

John pulls away after a while, wiping his eyes. Sherlock does the same, and John takes one look at Sherlock’s red eyes, tear-streaked face, and shaking lips and decides that it is unacceptable. 

 

He places a hand on Sherlock’s cheek. “It’s okay.”

 

Sherlock lets out a ragged breath and a tear falls without Sherlock noticing. “It’s not okay.” 

 

John looks at Sherlock and lets the affection he has held back always shine through. “No. But… it is what it is,” He murmurs, and Sherlock’s face is so hopeful and beautiful there is nothing else he can do but kiss him. 

 

Sherlock melts at John’s touch, and another tear rolls down his face before John wipes it away with his thumb. Sherlock’s hands around John’s middle withdraw and instead find themselves resting on John’s neck, angling him closer. John draws Sherlock’s torso up against his own with the hand still on Sherlock’s waist, and they kiss a bit more intensely. 

 

John suddenly redoubles his efforts and Sherlock moans into the kiss a bit, and John can stand this no longer. He pulls away, and Sherlock’s face is somehow still insecure and nervous. He bites his lip, and his eyes which had just dried well up with tears once more as if Sherlock had done something wrong. John plants a kiss on the tip of Sherlock’s nose to quell his fears. 

 

“I love you, Sherlock Holmes. And I always have,” John breathes into Sherlock’s ear, and he feels a tremor run through the man that sags against him once more. 

 

“Oh John,” He says softly, “I have loved you for just as long.” 

 

The words are like a shockwave, spreading through his body and shocking every nerve until he is frazzled and undone. After a moment of delay, John smiles brighter than he believes he ever has. 

 

Sherlock sways a bit in his arms, and John remembers where they are and what just happened. He slips the hand on Sherlock’s cheek to support him from his back, and slowly lays Sherlock down with his head resting on John’s thigh. John entwines a hand in Sherlock’s curls and slowly massages his scalp, letting Sherlock’s heavy eyes shut. 

 

When help does come for them in just a few minutes, John cannot stop smiling. 


End file.
